Only my alarm clock knows my secret. Every Tuesday, I wake up at 5:30 a.m. My bag’s already packed. I leave and fall down five flights of stairs and on to Bay State Road. It’s cold out, and I’m not really awake—not yet. No cars in sight. Without looking, I cross Commonwealth Avenue—okay, one car. I swipe into the COM building and make my way up to the third floor.

Only the third-floor janitor knows my secret. On Tuesdays, from 6 to 8 a.m., I host a radio show on WTBU, our school’s student-run radio station. It is, or at least was, my best kept secret; and so I beg you, please don’t tell your friends. Please.

No one listens to my radio show. Believe me, I get it. College students have other means of listening to music. Seeing as how the Western Hemisphere likes to sleep during my time slot, it’s safe to say that my target audience is seven hours ahead, somewhere in Eastern Europe (shout out to my Bulgarian fan base).

I don’t care though. In fact, I prefer that no one listens. Alone in the studio, the lights dimmed, I spill my guts out onto the airwaves. For two hours, once a week, I stop living in my head and say what’s on my mind. It’s therapeutic, but if and only if there’s no one listening.

What’s ironic is that I feel most alone when broadcasting my voice over the radio. My parents keep on asking me how they can stream the show live, but I won’t tell them (I guess I won’t show them this post either). I know that sounds horrible, but I really value my personal time on the air. I need it.

With no one listening, I can say whatever I want. I could confess my love for Diane Keaton. I could criticize the current administration and drop f-bombs and say Beetlejuice three times, and nothing would happen. But is it unreasonable for me to assume that no one’s listening? My friends know about the show, but unless they’re suffering from horrible night terrors I don’t expect them to be awake at six in the morning on a Tuesday.

There’s no point in giving myself false hope. I mean, maybe there’s a chance that somewhere off in Eastern Europe, a poor boy, the son of a toymaker, carries in his pocket a transistor radio; and maybe, as he walks down the cobble-stone streets eating pistachio shells just to get by, he listens to my show and dreams of a better tomorrow. Maybe. But as far as I’m concerned, in that studio, I’m the last man on Earth.

I mean, why do you think I’m writing this post? It’s just another way for me to say what’s on my mind while avoiding human contact at all costs. I’m a biological introvert, opposed to all things public speaking. What’s my problem? Why did I even apply for a radio show?